Atonement to Deformity
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: Arthur Kirkland, or England, has apparently dropped off the face of the earth and ended up with a fated hero—a young boy named Peter.


**Atonement to Deformity**

**Synopsis: Arthur Kirkland, or England, has apparently dropped off the face of the earth and ended up with a fated hero—a young boy named Peter.**

**Genre: Fantasy, Adventure**

**Pairings: None**

**A/N: Peter – Sealand**

**Do not own Hetalia, thank you very much.**

**Prelude **

When the child, Peter, woke alone in the forest, he began to weep miserably, for a striking pain had ignited within his feet and limbs. Through his soggy network of tears, he saw that he was leaning against a tree, his hands sewn together and the pads of his feet too, so that his skin became an eternally connected fabric. He shivered, the painful memories of flogging, abandonment, resentment, and hatred pressed upon him through his miserably twelve years shooting through his memory, all because his fate had been exposed to parents who did not agree with it.

He scooted slightly, trying to ignore the pain. He ended up slumping to one side. His shoulder strained dangerously and he feared it would fall off. It did not, however, and he continued to make his slow way through, tears still spilling and running his eyes raw. He fell over, smacking his teeth hard against a rock. Something cracked and blood squirted out of his mouth, dribbling down his chin. He could taste the dirt coating the rock. He heaved himself back up, ripping his arms up and disconnecting them from his feet, tearing away bits of flesh that hung onto him like chains of a prisoner. He attempted to rip his hands apart and managed, with surprising strength handed down by some divine being prior to his birth. This fact was unknown to him, at the time, and so he passed the sudden burst of energy as a side effect of adrenaline coursing his veins. He pulled at the weeds and roots in the dirt, pulling himself out of the dingy area behind the tree. He glanced upwards and saw the sky, thousands of tiny gems decorating it, and he thought that they looked farther away than they ever had, as though the sky had suddenly unlatched from the earth and was drifting away.

Peter spat out several teeth, mixed with blood and saliva. He ripped his feet apart and rose to his legs. Every step was agony and hard labor, yet he managed to drag himself to the edge of a river. He glanced into his greenish, shimmering depths. It was something extraterrestrial, something beyond the grasps of nature, with how it shone and reflected the fish swimming beneath, flashing their psychedelic scales. Peter lowered himself and dipped his feet into the pool, then his hands. Blood drifted out of his wounds, like clouds of smoke, or red mist. They curdled and rose in clots, then were swept away downstream. A cool tinge of relief flooded his nerves and he began to relax. With the onslaught of torture slowly began flushed away, he became aware of an acute pain in his stomach and head, as well as a dull throb in his jaw. He couldn't recall the last time he ate or drank.

Shifting away from his messy of red, Peter dipped his cupped hands into the pool and brought them up, sipping the life-giving liquid. It trailed smoothly down his throat and calmed the sour tastes in his mouth. He could feel now where he had lost two teeth and chipped another. He felt, with his tongue, a piece of tooth that wobbled on a small splinter to its other half. It grinded in his mouth and he winced. With a shove of his tongue he managed to snap it out, for it had no use dangling there painfully. He held the broken shard in his palm and recalled, pulling this old tale from the depths of his small life, an old saying. He couldn't recall the details, but the pertained to throwing away a lost tooth and making a wish. So, Peter did. He flung it into the woods, rustling a bush for a brief minute, and wished for freedom. Out of that bush came a cluster of glowing, pale orange orbs. They fluttered into the sky like comets going in reverse, twirling in the cool night air. Peter smiled at the fireflies, wondering if it was a signal that his wish had already come true.

He pulled out of the stream and crawled into the woods. He found a little nook on the tree, a place of comfort perhaps once inhabited by a fox. He curled up and fell at once into a merciful sleep. From his mind the poison drifted away, seeping into the grass and evaporating into the pure, blissful moonlight.

With the coming of sunlight, three small deer arose from their slumber. They frolicked towards Peter, tasted the strange scent, and drew closer. Their mothers, does who had long been familiar with the smell of man, quickly rushed to take the curious beings back. Their white spots glistened in the pale light, coming through the tall trees and painting the clearing many colors, and eventually tickling Peter awake. He rose, sniffing the fresh air, and checking his hands. The markings of the stitches would remain scars until he was long below the earth and rotting. He rose to his feet, scattering the deer away. Heedless of them, he returned to the pool and dipping his hands in. With every sip of water his stomach grumbled louder and louder until he could no more avoid the inevitability of starvation. He sought from then on to seek a source of food. He decided against meat because he had nothing to hunt it down with or anything to cook it with. He couldn't gather mushrooms or berries for the chance of them being poisonous was a high one and he would much rather die of something nobler than eating a bad fruit.

However, as he was prideful of his cleverness, a new idea sprung forth and presented itself. The deer must have similar digestive tracts to him, and therefore must know what he could and cannot eat. Peter was a mere child but he knew quite well that a human being could not eat grass, so he dismissed that while watching the doe bend her honey-colored head to nibble on the herbs at her feet. He kept a close eye on them and they eventually stood, blinking grand eyelashes in his direction, before bouncing off into the forest. Peter scowled and decided to search for a human settlement. After what felt like a century of hiking and walking, he came across a small village. Gruff men with dirty beards and beady eyes passed him, disregarding his very existence.

Peter did not like these people, the smelled worse than he did, however one old woman noticed him and began to mumble in horror. Peter touched his face and hands. They felt and looked normal, like the other people in the village. He decided he couldn't rely on their kindness and rushed through. He did not want to commit his life to larceny, but one must do what circumstances impose. He found a barrel tipped over to its side and a loaf of bread wrapped in a brown paper sticking out. Peter swiped it and began hungrily devouring it, tears streaming down his face at the joy of eating.

"Peter!" Someone called from the crowds and Peter turned on them, hiding the chunk of bread he hadn't consumed behind his back. He searched for whoever had spoken out. His eyes landed upon a ruddy young man with blonde hair sticking in every direction, but not covering green eyes staring profusely at him. "What are you doing here?"

"Nothing, absolutely nothing," Peter said, taking a step back as the man approached him. For the life of him, he couldn't recall who that man was, how he knew his name, and what he wanted.  
"Have you got the wrong fellow, per'aps, sir?"

"No, no I haven't, you are Peter, right?"

"Maybe not the Peter you want, but my name is Peter that's a certain fact of me."

"Don't speak too much, it wastes time. Now, I want you to help me home."

"What home? En't this your home right 'ere?"

"Well, no, it isn't, I got dreadfully lost, you see."

"Don't talk too much, it wastes time!" Peter spat and made a mad sprint for it, leaving the man panting for breath and deeply worried.


End file.
